Alaskan Misadventure

My trip to Alaska, started unknown to me, when I was stationed at Chanute Field, Rantoul, Illinois. I volunteered for transfer to Europe in the spring of 1946 and was soon sent to the Overseas Replacement Depot in Greensboro, North Carolina. I gather there was no critical shortage of aerial photographers in Germany, and one day I was invited to join a B-29 squadron being formed at Salina, Kansas. My twin brother, Earl, was in Greensboro with me, by coincidence, and we both volunteered to transfer to the 42nd Photo Reconnaissance Squadron at Salina, Kansas.

We were soon on our way to Kansas, and I had my first experience flying as a crewmember aboard the Superfortress, the name given to the B-29. What stuck me as ironic was that Earl had instructed many people in becoming B-29 flight engineers yet had never flown in a B-29, and I believe I flew in a B-29 before he did. His training flights were aboard a B-24 equipped with B-29 engineer panels. I was assigned as a crewmember of Moose Holland's crew, and he was a colorful character in his own way.

I had some interesting times at Salina, and one incident I will never forget. We had some character in our barracks who came stumbling in early almost every morning around 0200, half drunk, turning on all the lights and waking up almost every other person there. Earl decided this had gone far enough and replaced the regular 100 watt light bulb suspended from the ceiling of the tar paper barracks with a large photoflash bulb. Pulling a string attached to the light fixture turned on the light. We expected that when this alcoholically inclined person pulled the string, he would be startled out of his wits and might get the hint that his erratic behavior was unacceptable. However, when the drunk came bumbling in, he decided he would not turn on the light but move the bulb to another socket suspended farther down the line of double bunks. As he screwed the photoflash bulb into the socket, it went off, producing a high degree of heat. This man had a blister on the palm of his hand the size of a large egg. I gather that no complaints were made and no additional inquiry was made as to who was responsible for substituting a flashbulb for a regular light bulb. Even if there had been an investigation, I am sure that no one would have known anything about the incident. But we did note that this man no longer dared to wake up everyone in the middle of the early morning hours thereafter.

We heard that our squadron was to be transferred to a place in Greenland where we would be doing mapping of the Arctic areas. Then I heard that B-29's were unusable in Greenland. A short time later word came down that anyone wanting to transfer to a squadron similar to ours that was being sent to Alaska could easily do so. At this time, Earl was home in Ohio on leave, so I sent him a telegram asking if he wanted to transfer to Alaska and I got back a positive answer. A few weeks later we were on our way to the air base at Grand Island, Nebraska, where we became crewmembers of the 46th Photo Reconnaissance Squadron. We were there about a month, flying all over the nation on training exercises. On one of these flights I had the pleasure of being shown how the radar works on the aircraft. The radar operator would place his set on a hundred mile range, and the nearby cities would easily be seen as they were shown on the screen as white areas, varying in size according to the size of the town reflecting the radar signal. If the radar operator placed the set on the five-mile range, we could see what appeared to be railroad ties in the railroad roadbed.

One event that I will never forget is the rime the squadron had a picnic at a place near our base. We had a good time, and the men had a good game of baseball. I also remember watching a baseball game when Major White was at bat. Someone yelled, "If you can't hit it, pull your rank on it." At the end of the day, just before we returned to our base, someone got the idea that everyone should be thrown bodily into the nearby river, and I think I may have been the only one at the picnic who returned with dry clothes. I have often wondered if my twin brother had been thrown into the river twice, once for himself and once for me.

One of the greater adventures of my life occurred when I was at Great Falls, Montana, waiting for transportation to Alaska. A number of us were given an opportunity to spend a weekend at Glacier National Park, one of the most beautiful national parks in our nation. On the last day there, we decided to hike to a place called Hidden Lake. We had to climb a seemingly endless grade upwards, perhaps a 2-mile hike altogether. On the way back down, someone decided to start running. I joined the crowd but soon found out I was not in top physical shape. One of the other men had stopped by a rock to catch his breath, so I stopped for a minute to see him. While standing there, I got my second wind and then ran effortlessly all the way back down, passing some people who apparently were surprised to see me still running.

We were soon on our way to Alaska via Great Falls, Montana. We were flown up in regular transport aircraft, C-54's, making several stops at Canadian air bases on the way there. On arrival at Fairbanks, we were soon taken to our new quarters, Quonset huts, which were made out of corrugated steel sheets. We never had a problem keeping warm as the small coal burning stove in each of the three sections of the barracks kept the room at a reasonable temperature. When I arrived in late August or early September, the Arctic nights were still short, and I can still remember with amazement how one morning at 0200 I walked out of the photo lab which was located upstairs in the main hanger into brilliant daylight. I soon learned that the amount of daily light changed 7 minutes twice a day, plus or minus, depending on the day of the year. Being September, the days were getting shorter. At this time the weather was cool but not frigid.

I was assigned to the aerial photographic section, and we aerial photographers worked in a small hut outside the main hanger. I spent many happy hours there talking with the other aerial photographers and learning more about my craft. I also had with me constantly my own Kodak Medallist camera that I used to take many pictures for personal use. This camera made eight exposures on a 620 roll of film, with each negative being 2 1/4 by 3 1/4 inches.

Soon we were on flights over the Arctic Ocean, and I must say that every time I crossed the Brooks Range, I was struck by its beauty, yet I shuttered at the possibility of having to survive in such a wild and desolate place. Once a person has seen such wilderness beauty, the sight of it remains stuck in memory for the life of the viewer.

I was on the crew commanded by Captain Lloyd Butler, and our crew was the first crew to fly over the North Pole. This event occurred on October 16, 1946. Major White, our squadron commander, was the aircraft commander on this first trip to the North Pole as he habitually flew the first mission to a new destination. We had on board with us Dr. Paul Siple, a well known Arctic and Antarctic explorer. Dr. Siple was the Eagle Boy Scout who accompanied Admiral Richard Byrd on an Antarctic expedition back in the 1930's. I hate to say it, but Dr. Siple was perhaps one of the ugliest men I had ever seen but also perhaps one of the most brilliant. Dr. Siple was the author of a book titled 90 Degrees South. I did not have a chance to speak to him during the flight as he spent all his time in the front of the B-29. He was constantly taking notes, so I am sure that someplace, somewhere, there is good documentation for our trip. These were long flights, and later some of the flights exceeded 24 hours. We made a number of similar flights, and a flight now to the North Pole was a routine thing for our flight crews. All crewmembers on this first flight over the North Pole were awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Yet there was always danger. Our first disaster occurred in December 1946 when one of our B-29's, piloted by Lt. Vern Arnett, crashed on take off while attempting a flight when the temperature was at minus 65 degrees. I had heard the severe cold had made the gasoline lines to the engines too brittle, and when the aviation gasoline was forced through these lines under high pressure, the high internal pressure caused the gas lines to break and spew 100 octane aviation gasoline onto the engines and caused the engines to explode into flames. This is what I heard, but I do not know the results discovered by a board of inquiry. No one was hurt in the crash, and one acquaintance told me he was sitting in the bombardier's seat located in the lower front of the nose section. The plastic windows split right open, leaving a huge gap in the plane's nose. My acquaintance told me all he had to do was to unfasten his seat belt and then walk directly forward through the opening caused by the crash. Soon afterwards, an announcement went out stating that no aircraft could take off unless it was minus 55 degrees or warmer.

One morning I had to use one of the bathrooms in the upstairs area of the hanger adjacent to the operations office. I noticed that the toilet bowl was badly stained, and this gave me determination that we needed a clean toilet bowl. I acquired some steel wool pads and spent about an hour cleaning off the accumulation of many years of yellow stains. I did not tell anyone I had cleaned the toilet bowl, but a few days later one of the operations officers asked who had cleaned the toilet bowl, and I admitted I had. He gave me a curious look and dropped the topic.

One of the most interesting personalities I met at Ladd Field was Sir Hubert Wilkins, a famous Arctic explorer. He told us a story about the time some years ago when he and his pilot were flying out over the Arctic Ocean off the Point Barrow area when the plane's engine suddenly quit and could not be restarted. They made a safe landing on the ice about a mile off shore and started walking back towards land. At this time, both were wearing reindeer skin clothing, perhaps the lightest and warmest cold weather clothing ever discovered. At they approached the shore, they noticed the ice was getting thinner and thinner. They then had to start crawling so as to distribute their body weight over as large an area as possible. About a hundred yards from shore, the ice gave way completely and they had to swim the rest of the way. The water temperature was about 29 degrees. When they got to the shore they immediately removed all their clothing, gave the reindeer garments a thorough shaking to remove all the excess water, and then they put the garments back on and were soon warm and comfortable. Sir Hubert also mentioned that some years before they had a new man with them on an Arctic expedition who was reluctant to get up in the morning and was lazy also, never wanting to help the others. One day he said he had enough of this person's laziness and took some decisive action. He forcibly made this man get up and get things started, and thereafter, this man gave no trouble and was now often a leader in camp activities. Wilkins maintained that all this person needed was a good boot in the rear end, and when he got this boot, this person became a changed man. Sir Hubert also gave us some advice that helped us when our crew crashed in northern Greenland. He told us to always sleep in our underwear so as to allow all moisture to escape from our outer garments.

We had a young man in the squadron, Corporal Harold Alexander, who appeared to me to be a very talented photographer and photographic chemist. He was a photographic laboratory technician, but he was also well qualified in using photographic make up. He used stage make up one day that he made of our airmen look like Abraham Lincoln. After the make up was done, he photographed the man and then made a 16 x 20 inch enlargement, sepia toned it, and mounted this photograph over the stairwell in the main hanger landing which lead to the photo lab. I remember this man, a sergeant, was in the Air Corps in Europe in 1944 and was sent as an infantryman into battle during the Battle of the Bulge. He was captured by the Germans and spent some time in a German prisoner of war camp.

Thinking of hangers, Earl told me a story about an ex-officer who had re enlisted after World War II as a master sergeant and was made a crew chief. One day this man asked Earl if the oil should be removed before changing an engine. Earl thought he must have been kidding and replied, "Heavens, no." Then the man had about 30 quarts of oil to mop up and possibly needed an explanation to give to the maintenance officer.

On February 20, 1947, I was assigned to take the place of S/Sgt. Robert Zwiesler aboard a B-29 named the Kee Bird. The Kee Bird is a mythological bird of Alaska who sits around all winter instead of flying south to a warmer climate, all the time wrappings its wings around its body while shivering and chattering "Kee-kee keerist, it's cold." This day I was substituting for Sergeant Zwiesler as he had a bad cold and could not fly, and I needed the flying time. In order to earn flight pay, a flight crewmember has to fly a minimum of 4 hours a month although he has 3 months to meet this requirement. This was the first time I had flown with Lt. Vern Arnett. We also had a substitute radio operator, Sgt. Bob Leader, as he was taking the place of the regular radio operator who was getting married. I think we reported to the operations room about 0500 for a briefing, had breakfast, and then started to preflight the airplane, a job that usually takes about 4 hours. The flight was delayed for a few hours as some propeller problem had to be fixed. The plane was soon in good shape, and shortly afterwards we were in the air and on the way to the North Pole.

The flight to the North Pole was rather routine, but as we headed back problems developed. A few hours later, the radar operator. Lt. Howard Adams, called out, "Landfall, 100 miles ahead." Neither of the two navigators, Lt. Burl Cowan and Lt. John Lesman, believed him until they saw the picture on the radarscope. It was quickly determined that the gyroscopic compass was not working properly. We were north of the magnetic North Pole, a site then located in northern Canada, so the magnetic compass was worthless. The navigators were unable to get a reading from any of the heavenly bodies because of a thick cloud overhead. The radio compass was not able to pick up a station on a regular basis. We were occasionally able to pick up some stations and we followed their signals for a short time, but soon these signals reversed direction or else faded out. We could see a number of islands below us, none of which the navigators could identify, and after flying around for some time, Lieutenant Arnett realized that we would soon run out of gas and that we had better land someplace while there was still some daylight left in the short Arctic day. Lieutenant Russell Jordan, the copilot, soon spotted a flat area and Lieutenant Arnett decided to make wheels up landing. He had no knowledge of what was underneath the snow and feared making a wheels down landing. At that time we had no idea in the world where we were, and we could have been in Alaska, Canada, or, perish the thought, Siberia. That we were lost was the only sure thing we knew about our problem. I did hear a story later that our radio operator supposedly radioed a report that said "We don't know where we are, but we are making good time." Sergeant Leader later denied this report. We were all alerted to the plan for ditching and made preparations to insure that no loose articles would come flying forward when the plane struck the ground and slid to a stop. I know that all of us were apprehensive and scared, but I suppose this would be a normal reaction. During the time we were looking for a place to land, I know that butterflies were bouncing around in my stomach. I know that I offered a short prayer asking that if the plane caught on fire t hat we have time to get out and to take most of our survival material with us. I also prayed that if the plane exploded on contact with the ground on landing that we all be given a quick painless death.

As the Kee Bird made contact with the icy surface of the frozen lake, it lurched forward and finally came to a stop. The first thing we did in the rear compartment was to start throwing out all of the survival gear in sight, for there was always the possibility that a fire could start from the heat of the engines or from static electricity created by the plane's sliding on the ice. When we stopped, I was sitting in the right scanner's seat in the rear of the plane, and I was securely fastened in by my safety belt. M/Sgt Lawrence Yarbrough, who had been sitting in the left scanner's seat, came over and told me to calm down which I immediately did and then released the safety belt catch with no problem.

I believe the first person out of the rear entrance was S/Sgt Paul McNamara who immediately knelt down on the ice, made a sign of the cross, and offered a short but silent prayer. He also made the statement as he was on his knees and looking up at us that " This only happens to other people." We were soon pawing through the survival material and found lots of stuff we did and did not need, including mosquito nets and campaign hats. When we landed, I was wearing combat boots inside a pair of fur lined boots, but these were not warm enough to keep my feet warm. One of the first things I used from the survival kit was a pair of mukluks, a type of Arctic shoe. First, there were three pairs of socks, each one progressively heavier than the one before, and on top of these was a canvass boot. The mukluks were amazingly warm, and soon my feet were as comfortable as could be. During this time, the outdoor temperature was perhaps 50 to 60 degrees below zero.

We had a portable toilet on board in t he back of the plane, and I quickly found that the usual Air Corps flight coveralls were inappropriate for use in extreme cold when one has to go to the toilet. I at once had a critical decision to make. If I removed or let down the flight coveralls, more of my lower body would be exposed to the killing cold weather. I solved the coverall problem by using a knife to make a cut around my entire waist so now I had a two piece suit. The bathroom, such as it was, was soon moved from inside the aircraft to a spot underneath the left side of the tail where a parachute had been opened to provide privacy. Our bathroom was cold and drafty, but we were lucky in that all the time we were in Greenland, there was never any snow or wind at all.

As night was approaching, I decided I might as well find a comfortable spot to sleep. I opened a parachute, spread it out under the right wing of the plane, placed an empty sleeping bag on top of the parachute and then placed another sleeping bag on top of that. One thing I quickly learned was that I could retain the liquid in my bladder longer than I thought possible because it was just too cold to get out of the very warm sleeping bag to make a trip to our latrine. At this time, I was following the advice of Sir Hubert Wilkins and had stripped down to my regular underwear before I crawled into the sleeping bag.

Soon after making a landing, the flight engineer, Bob Luedke, let some oil flow out of two engines as he knew that the oil would soon freeze. If the oil had been left in the engines, we would not have been able to get to it. A fire was made by mixing gas and oil plus some kind of wick in a small metal container, and this was used by Bob Luedke to heat up the oil pan beneath the small auxiliary electrical generator found near the rear exit door in all B-29's. Once the oil was warm enough, pulling on a rope wrapped around a flywheel started the auxiliary engine. Lieutenant Jordan said this was the sweetest sound he had ever heard once this small engine fired up. Having electrical power enabled us to use our radio to report our situation to our base at Ladd Field in Alaska. Our two navigators, Lieutenants Cowan and Lesman, soon were able to pinpoint our location from a three star reading. They were able to establish our longitude and latitude (80 degrees north latitude where it intersected Greenland) but had no idea where this site was as they had no maps of this area in their possession. Our radio operator, Bob Leader, soon learned that we were about 200 miles north of Thule, Greenland, then a Danish weather station. We did establish radio contact with our base at Fairbanks, and I suppose great relief was also felt there because we were all safe. Arrangements were then made to fly rescue missions to locate our exact position. Even before we landed, Major White had ordered a rescue B-29 into the air to search for us.

A fire had been made using the plane's gasoline and oil plus a wick made from a parachute harness. We also burned some of the 35mm 100' radar film. I believe the oil and gas were mixed, and I do remember that the fire let out a tremendous amount of black smoke. The food we had was frozen solid. I opened one of the K-rations (contained in a box about the size of a Cracker Jack container) and found it almost impossible to remove the clear plastic wrapping on the fruit bar as the plastic stuck firmly to the fruit bar it covered. We were able to eat with no real problem except for the thawing out of the food.

The coldness affected everything mechanical. I had with me a 35mm Clarus camera and had shot about a half a roll of black and white Super-XX film during our preflight work. I made the mistake of leaving the camera outside, and when I attempted to take a picture, the camera would not work. What irked me was that the camera had been widely advertised as ideal for cold weather work, but the designers apparently never considered that the camera would be used in severe cold weather where the temperature rarely got above minus 50 degrees. I had also checked out an Army M-1 rifle as part of our survival equipment. The next day I had taken the trigger housing from the bottom of the rifle, cleaned it off as well as I could, then fired one shot to test it. About 20 minutes later I decided to test fire the rifle again, and as I pulled the trigger I could feel and hear the trigger moving forward sluggishly but without having enough momentum to strike the firing pin with sufficient force to ignite the rifle cartridge. I was told later that one of the men, Sergeant Yarbrough, had taken the rifle with him when we started back on the rescue plane. I suppose it would have made an excellent hunting rifle.

The next day was bright and sunny, and we had been alerted to the fact that a B-29 was headed in our direction and would be dropping supplied to us once we were located. Soon afterwards, we spotted the B-29 high in the sky and heading about 10 degrees off a direct path to our location. We were soon in radio contact with Captain Allenby, the pilot of the rescue plane, and saw him make a course correction and head in our direction while losing altitude. Sergeant Leader was able to guide Captain Allenby's B-29 to us through the use of his radio signal. Leader would give directions to the rescue B-29's radio operator, Sergeant Poff, though the use of the signal strength of the radio signal.

Captain Allenby's B-29 flew directly over us and soon we saw many small parachutes opening. These parachutes held bundles of supplies, survival gear, which we really did not need but perhaps could have used if we had to remain on the crash site for an extended period. Along with the other crewmembers, I started running out onto the nearby area to haul in the dropped supplies. I would estimate the temperature as being about -60 degrees, but soon I had to remove the heavy winter clothing I was wearing as I was perspiring too freely. Naturally, the articles of clothing had to be put back on again after the physical exertions had ceased.

One of the things dropped was a calendar showing a picture of a partially undressed young lady. The calendar was an advertisement from one of the bars in Fairbanks, and about 1993 I sent this calendar to Ken White, the son of the now retired Colonel White. Some of Captain Allenby's crewmembers had written appropriate messages on this calendar for our amusement. No booze was dropped, but I think that every man on the Kee Bird crew knew that alcohol could not help a person to keep warm in the severe cold conditions such as we were experiencing.

When I got up the next morning, I heard a report that a rescue plane was on its way. I could have sworn someone said it was a C-45 that was coming (This is a small two engine transport aircraft), but a few hours later we saw a most beautiful sight, a C-54, a four engine transport aircraft. The rescue plane made one circle of our area and then immediately landed on the ice lake. The pilot, Lieutenant Bobby Joe Cavnar, ran taxied his aircraft up and down the improvised runway several times just to be sure that he could have sufficient traction and length for his coming take off. After the rescue plane had come to a halt, we observed the crew throwing out a load of emergency supplies and other stuff to make the take off weight as low as possible. I also observed them attaching two jet-assisted take off units (JATO) underneath each wing, one for each side. We were soon aboard and the doctor on board quickly checked each of us and found all of us in good health. Once the C-54 was ready to take off, all of us were apprehensive about a safe take off. As we started to roll, the pilot ignited the two JATO units, and we took off with a roar, with a lot of flames shooting out from the JATO units. We had absolutely no problem in taking off and were airborne within seconds. My twin brother, Earl, was among the crew flying above us in one of our squadron's B-29's at that time and told me later we took off like a fighter plane. Pictures were also taken of us from the B-29. I did hear a report later that some of the B-29 crewmembers thought the rescue plane had caught fire when the JATO units were ignited. This B-29, piloted by Captain Jack Setterich, escorted us to Thule and then returned to Fairbanks.

We were soon headed to Thule, a Danish airstrip and weather station. We made it to Thule with a very light load of gasoline. Once we landed at Thule, both our crew and the rescue crew were invited inside a hut where the Danish weather people invited us for a steak dinner. When we went back to the aircraft, we noticed that the Greenlander Eskimos were using a hand pump to transfer aviation gas from the 55-gallon drums to the C-54's fuel tanks. I also noticed some of the malamutes, Eskimo dogs, which had very blue eyes and were also very friendly. I certainly would have liked to have taken one of the puppies back with me, but I knew this was impossible. Once the aircraft had been refueled, we were soon headed for Westover Field, Massachusetts.

I recall that it was a long flight of many hours, but we were soon landing at Westover. As we walked down the portable gangplank, we could see dozens of photographers and reporters, but we had been briefed not to discuss anything until we had been cleared to do so. We were soon in a hospital ward reserved just for our crew. New clothing was issued as all of us had only our flight suits with us. Once we were showered and shaved and dressed we started out the door to find a post exchange and perhaps a bank where we could cash our personal checks. The military policeman at the door had strict orders not to permit any unauthorized visitors inside the ward but had no instructions about confining us to the ward. We soon found a place to cash our checks, with each of us identifying the others for the benefit of the bank clerk.

We were soon informed a few days later that we would soon be flown to Great Falls, Montana, and then back to Alaska. The entire crew decided we would have supper at a local hotel and stay in a good bed for one night. My roommate for this night was S/Sgt Paul McNamara (now deceased). We had a wonderful supper and an entertaining evening. I later went to a movie before returning to the hotel for the night.

As promised, we were soon headed west aboard a C-47. Our first stop was at Selfridge Field in Michigan where we stayed for the night. The next morning we flew to Minneapolis, Minnesota, and then on to Great Falls, Montana. We were in Great Falls for a few days before we could fly back to Fairbanks, Alaska. Great Falls was then still somewhat of a pioneer town. Some of the bars had small booths enclosed by curtains where one's privacy could be assured. As several of us once were walking up the main street, we heard a commotion ahead of us and saw a man's body being heaved out of the bar and onto the snow and ice covered street. This man then got up and walked away in the dignified manner of a true alcoholic. We were in Great Falls, Montana, about the first week of March 1947, and I recall the outside temperature was about -40 degrees Centigrade, almost as cold as it was in Alaska. Our holiday soon ended with our departure for Fairbanks.

A few days later there was a board of inquiry concerning the reasons why we managed to get lost over the Arctic Ocean. I think the navigators said they did not have maps of northern Greenland or northeast Canada, as we had not expected to be in that part of the world. No doubt we could have oriented ourselves if we had these maps, and I am sure that the two navigators might have realized the islands we saw might have been located in northeast Canada, but then I did not attend the entire board of inquiry meetings and never knew what the determination was about or who, if anyone, was at fault in this incident.

Within a few days of our return, our crew was given Arctic survival training. One of the differences in the two sites, one near Ladd Field and the other in northern Greenland, was that in the training area, there were hundreds of trees that could be used to make a fire. In Greenland, there was not a tree within a thousand miles. We were all warned that snow was the greatest thief in the Arctic. If a knife or tool or similar items were dropped into the snow, the chances of recovery were poor. I made sure that nothing I carried could be accidentally dropped. While on this training exercise, we learned how to snare the Arctic hare. We could see small paths used by these rabbits, and we took a piece of stainless steel wire, made a loop in it, and placed the loop over the rabbit trail. The other end of the steel wire loop was fastened to a tree branch. We were soon able to snare the rabbits with ease. The rabbit would come to the wire snare and stop with its head just barely inside the steel wire loop. For some reason, the rabbit dared not go any farther and just froze to death sitting where he was, being unable to get his reverse gear into motion. We had some country boys ion the crew, and we quickly learned how to skin a rabbit. A cut would be made completely around the neck, and then the entire skin from the neck down could be peeled away as easy as taking off a glove. The fun started when we attempted to cook the rabbit. There was very little meat anywhere, and I think it could have taken a dozen rabbits to supply enough calories for one man for a single meal.

One winter day when the temperature was a mild -20 degrees, Victor Perry and I checked out .22 rifles and went rabbit hunting. This was my first experience at hunting any animal, and naturally I failed to shoot any game at all. Victor mentioned that if I spotted a rabbit I should shoot almost immediately or else the rabbit would disappear rapidly. He shot one rabbit which we boiled for 4 hours on top of the coal stove in our hut, but even then there was little nutritional value in the hare.

One interesting thing we did was to help a pig farmer cut wood. As crewmembers, we often did not have too much to do, and I suppose it was felt that working in the woods would be good exercise for us. We did this during the summer months. We would check out a 3/4 ton truck and drive about 10 miles to this man's farm. By the time we arrived, the windshield of the truck would be smeared with hundreds of small mosquitoes called by the natives "No see-us." Even through they were small, they were aggressively hostile and had a good bite if any exposed skin could be found. We usually spent out time cutting trees down with double bladed axes. This was the time before chain saws became a common item of use. I think we were to have been paid by the number of cords of wood we cut, but I seriously doubt if we ever cut enough wood to earn some pay. I was often amused when during a break the farmer would say, "While you boys are resting, would you please cut down that tree." One reason I remember this farmer is that he had a beautiful daughter about 13 years old. I think I still have a picture of her some place in my photo albums. I have often wondered if this man made a successful living raising swine in central Alaska even if he could get all the free garbage he wanted to feed his pigs from the military mess halls.

There really were not too many things to see in the Fairbanks area. We did have a beautiful view of the McKinley Range when the weather was clear. We would often take a walk into town but the prices there often scared us off. We were not being paid civilian wages but standard military pay. There was a saying in Fairbanks that one could always spot the new people in town as they people were aghast and shocked at the prices charged for just about everything.

Perhaps the thing that affected my life more than anything else was the airplane crash I was involved in May 1947. Our crew was scheduled for a routine long distance flight that would last for about 24 to 30 hours. Our squadron's B-29's had been modified to include a number of extra gas tanks that would give us a much longer range than average. I think our takeoff weight was 140,000 lbs., and all this extra weight was caused by the additional weight of the aviation gas we had to carry. Just past the end of the runway at Ladd Field was a small hill several hundred feet high. We took off towards that hill, and I heard later that the height of the hill caused our pilot, Lt. Edgar Fowler, to take off too soon. As we were taking off, I knew we were in trouble as the engines were racing at maximum speed. We took off all right and climbed high enough to avoid the hill, but apparently the climb was too steep and our aircraft lost some flying speed. The pilot attempted to regain sufficient speed and altitude, but before he could recover flying speed, the undercarriage of the plane smashed into the ground. We quickly came to a screeching stop. At this time I was sitting facing backwards in the rear section of the plane with my back against the film racks that held the long rolls of 9 inch wide film we used for aerial photography. Of the f our people not wearing safety belts, I was the only one who survived. Guess my guardian anger was looking after me. I knew we were crashing and threw my hands in front of my face to deflect any flying debris. My only thought at this moment was that this might be my final seconds of life.

I must have been unconscious for a few seconds because when I got to the exit door, there were already two or three people there, yet I was the closest to the exit door when the crash happened. I could see small fires burning inside the rear compartment of the aircraft and knew that we had to escape at once before the gas tanks exploded. The rear exit door, which is normally located on the right side of the B-29, was now facing straight up into the air. This meant that the rear fuselage had turned 90 degrees to the right. At least three people had already climbed out of the aircraft before I had my turn. I placed my bare hands on the outside of the door preparing to heave myself up. As my hands touched the metal surface, I could feel my hands burning as they touched the red hot metal surface. This did not deter me in the least, as I knew that in order to escape from the burning plane I had to endure the discomfort. I made my escape with help from the people still waiting to escape from what would become an inferno in a matter of seconds.

As I walked on top of the fuselage towards the end of the plane so that I could jump off easily, I heard the radar operator, Lieutenant Mitchell, complaining about the lack of rescue people on hand to help us. No doubt this was just a nervous reaction on his part, but it amused me as I knew t hat rescue efforts would take some time but would be done as quickly as possible.

As soon as I got to the ground, I made haste in getting away. But as I walked, I knew something was wrong with my neck but did not know what. I could see strips of burned flesh hanging off my right hand and a large blister on each of hands. My shoulders seemed to be up around my ears, and at that time I had no idea why. I decided I should remove my parachute harness I was wearing but had a hard time unfastening it because of the injuries to both my hands. I finally got the parachute harness unfastened, and later I heard there was some speculation of how a parachute harness got so much blood on it. All the people who were in the rear of the plane escaped safely, and we then walked in a large semi-circle towards the front of the plane. When we arrived there the people in the front end of the plane had joined together in a small group. We found that three men had not escaped from the now burning aircraft and that M/Sgt, Mark Dennison, the radio operator, had a badly injured knee. I think also one of the officers had a broken shoulder or arm.

My shoulders were still hunched up even though I was able to walk with no problem. I knew both of my hands were badly damaged but not beyond repair once I could get to a hospital. I decided it would be better if I started walking back towards the base as it would be impossible for me to assist anyone in any way. I then started walking back towards the small river at the end of the runway. Soon I met a number of soldiers rushing towards the crash site, easily located now because a towering cloud of black smoke pinpointed the exact location of the now exploding and burning B-29. Two men, whose identify I did not know, came to me and assisted me in my walk towards the river bank. I gather that all the potential rescuers had crossed the river in a small rowboat or else had swam across. I was immediately seated in the boat and rowed to the other side. I presume I was still in a state of shock as I felt no pain from my neck or from my bleeding and raw hands. I was looking forward to being in a nice hospital bed and could almost feel the freshness of the sheets that would soon comfort me. When we got to the other side of the river, I was placed in the front passenger seat of a jeep and driven to the base hospital at Ladd Field.

Once I got to the hospital, I was soon in the x-ray room where I quickly realized that something was wrong with my neck. Each time the female medical x-ray technician asked to move my head, I was not able to perform any movement without extreme pain or discomfort, even almost unbearable pain. This ordeal was soon over, and I was at last in a hospital bed. But a few minutes later, I was taken to the plaster room where one of the doctors told me I had a broken neck and would have to have a cast placed so as to support my injured neck. The doctor who encased my upper body in a cast certainly did an unusual job. When finished, the cast started around my navel and went up over the top of my head. Only a small space was left open so that just my eyes, nose, and mouth were left exposed. As the cast was being put on, my twin brother, Earl, visited, and wished me the best of luck. He did tell me that it was a miracle that anyone could have escaped from this accident, but his judgment was probably based on seeing the tall cloud of black smoke at the crash site. A few hours later I was told that I was being flown to a general hospital in the United States (at this time, Alaska was not a state) where I would be cared for. I later learned that patients are returned to the continental United States only if the period of hospitalization is expected to last longer than 6 months.

The next day Mark Dennison and I were flown to the general Army hospital in Anchorage, Alaska, my first stop on my way to Oliver General Hospital in Augusta, Georgia. Mark was to be flown to a military hospital in Battle Creek, Michigan. We were soon in the hands of the medical evacuation squadron. Our next stop was at Madigan General Hospital near Fort Lewis, Washington, close to Tacoma. At Madigan, I soon realized that the pressure on my ears from the cast was just too uncomfortable and arranged to have a hole made in the cast so that each of my ears was now free. We were then flown to Travis Air Force Base in Fairfield, California, where we spent another night. There the tragedy finally caught up with me. As I was resting in my bed, I could not help myself and started to silently cry for the three men who had been killed. I am not an emotional person, but the tragic events just seemed to overpower me.

We were soon headed for El Paso, Texas. When we were placed aboard the Army ambulance, I was still on a stretcher. The driver apparently wanted to set a speed record in getting us to the ward where we would stay overnight, and the driver's maneuvers caused me to be turned and tossed around the ambulance, and I felt that if I could have gotten my hands on the driver, I would have choked him half to death for his unnecessary rough treatment of his injured passengers. But I survived and was soon in a comfortable bed. One of the medics asked me if there was anything he could do to make me more comfortable, and I asked for a bath. I probably wasn't that dirty, but the stench from my right hand where the skin had been burned off was like that from a dead animal. It was difficult for me to keep my right hand far enough away from my nose, so the smell of dead flesh was constantly with me.

I did appreciate his attempt to clean me in spite of the fact that he could not reach any part of my upper torso because of my body cast. My next stop was in San Antonio, Texas, where we stayed overnight at Fort Sam Houston. My final stop arrived the next day when I arrived at my destination, Oliver General Hospital, at Augusta, Georgia, the nearest hospital to my hometown that was then Birmingham, Alabama. When I arrived at the hospital, my stretcher was placed outside the receiving room on the grass. There was some kind of problem about my being admitted because I had not signed an inventory sheet showing that I had with me a set of hospital pajamas and my wallet. Since I could not use either hand, as both were heavily bandaged because of my burns, I laughed to myself at the ridiculous situation. Soon someone with a bit of common sense had me taken, while I was still on the stretcher, to the orthopedic ward. I was not in bed for 15 minutes when I realized I had to go to the bathroom. No one had told me I could not walk, so I strolled leisurely to the latrine and relieved myself. This was the first time I could see the lower portion of my body, and I noticed my legs were covered with blue and yellow splotches. Almost immediately, several doctors came in to check on me and were apparently relieved that they did not have a paralyzed person on their hands.

The doctor in charge of the orthopedic ward was Lieutenant Colonel Dehne, a Jewish doctor who had escaped from Austria in the 1930's. The first time I saw him, he told me I needed to have my right hand cleaned so as to avoid infection. He told me he would pour some chloroform over my right hand and that it would appear to be cool for a few seconds. He failed to add that once the cooling effect was over, I would experience a lot of pain. Once this ordeal was over, my hands did heal rapidly even though my right palm is still covered with scar tissue.

The old saying that inside each dark cloud is a silver lining proved true as a result of my hospitalization. I met a beautiful blonde nurse, Lt. Elaine Anderson, and proposed marriage and was accepted and we were married on September 8, 1947, at New Brunswick, New Jersey.

But the hiatus ended when I was released back to active duty in November. I was soon headed back to Alaska, again via Great Falls, Montana. I arrived when the squadron was having a Thanksgiving party, and at first I was not recognized perhaps because I might have been mistaken for my twin. Our squadron commander, Major White, who was sitting at a table on this Thanksgiving Day, the day of my return to the squadron, immediately recognized me and came over to me and shook my hand and welcomed me back to the squadron. But I was soon back with the people and anxious to get in my flying time so that I could again earn my flight pay. Made it just in time. Of course I was now a married man and looked forward to having my wonderful wife, Elaine, join me in Fairbanks.

In December 1947, one of our B-29's, commanded by lst Lt. Vern Arnett, the same pilot who crashed in northern Greenland, crashed into a hillside while flying on a low-level Project 20 mission. One of the crewmembers told me later what they thought was a cloud turned out to the side of a mountain. When the plane hit the mountainside, the wings and the fuselage ended up parallel to each other. All of our crews had strict instructions to remain with the plane in the event of an accident and that every effort would be made to locate the downed plane and rescue the crew. No one was killed in the accident, but one enlisted man had a broken leg and some of the crewmembers had been burned. In the next few days all of the other crews were flying missions to locate the downed aircraft. Once the downed plane was located, maximum efforts were made to rescue the crew. All but two were rescued by Alaskan bush pilots that landed their small airplanes near the crash site. Lieutenant Arnett and his navigator, Lieutenant Sheetz, decided to walk to what they thought was a nearby village for help. Both were found frozen to death in the spring. In spite of advice that it would be suicide to have rescue people parachuted into the crash site area, the commanding general of the Alaskan Air Command ordered this be done, and three good men, one a doctor, were killed when they attempted to parachute into the crash site.

In January 1948, Elaine made preparations to join me. I flew to Seattle, Washington, to meet her, and I am glad she was not on this flight. The airline pilot flew the small C-47 transport plane into bad weather, and we were soon flying down the middle of a mountain range. The wings of the aircraft seemed o be constantly flapping as the plane bounced through the turbulent air. I am not subject to airsickness, but this would have been a miserable trip for anyone not having a strong stomach.

Elaine and I were soon together after her long train ride across the United States, but we could not depart Seattle because of the heavy fog that had settled in the area. I think we spent an extra week in Seattle and had a chance to walk around the town. Both of us were surprised to find roses growing in one of the public parks. One day we were placed aboard a bus, but when we got to the airport, the plane we were to fly in to Fairbanks could not be found because of the heavy fog. A few days later we were taken by bus to Portland, Oregon, where we were soon headed for Fairbanks. We made one stop at White Horse, Yukon Territory, Canada. Elaine is subject to motion sickness, and I think she resented the fact that I was sitting there next to her as if I had been sitting at home. We finally made it to Fairbanks, and when we got downtown, across the street from a bar, Elaine lost her supper.

We were soon in our new home, a one-room apartment converted from a chicken coop. For the next few months we enjoyed the Alaskan winter. Without fail, Elaine would take a daily walk into the center of Fairbanks, about a mile away, no matter how cold it was, and often the temperature would be below -60 degrees. But as they say in Alaska, one does not endure the cold but dresses for it.

My Alaskan adventures were soon coming to an end. My neck started to bother me, an experience I now have every year or so. The doctors decided that I might need a spinal fusion operation, and soon I was on my way to Murphy General Hospital, Waltham, Massachusetts. There the doctors decided to operate on my neck, but they decided at the last minute against this operation, telling me that I would just have to live with a sore neck for the remainder of my life.

However, I still have many fond memories of my time in Alaska. The reader of this narrative should also remember the maxim that as one gets older, he always remembers many things that never happened. And this narrative was written 40 years after the events mentioned in this narrative.